Three
by Sinead Rivka
Summary: .:G1:. Prowl has discovered the logical law of threes. Everything happens in threes. Especially trouble. Mental break drabble fic turned multi-parter, maybe more on the way. J/P friendship, non-slash.
1. Chapter 1

Three  
By Sinead

_**Author's Note:**__ Just a drabble that won't leave me alone. J/P friendship, no slash. Dunno if I'll continue it on past this point, but eh, if I do, whatev's. This is just me practicing writing and character stuff, and having a good time at it._

Everything seemed to always come in threes. Trouble, for instance. Twins plus one: Bluestreak. Prowl didn't let his irritation show as he sentenced Sunstreaker to cleaning the mess hall floor with a hand-buffer, not even the normal sized one, Sideswipe was to do double-shifts for the next week, no trading off with anyone, and Bluestreak was told to clean the wash racks. To use a human word, those were positively _grody_. Absolutely disgusting after all the scouts had reported in, and this was the first chance that anyone had to clean them since the beginning of the week. And did he mention that the spring rains had turned the normally-well-packed dirt roads that lead up to their base into mudbaths?

Sending the trio upon their way, he looked up at the door to see Optimus walk in with more paperwork, this time having to do with logistics regarding working with the American government. That was left on his desk while the leader moved on to deal with either more pressing issues, or to catch up on much-needed recharge. Recycling the air in his system, Prowl renewed his efforts to get through the pile of paperwork that needed to be done.

Of course, that was when the next interruption came. He hoped this was the third one. Thankfully, it was just Arcee, coming in to report her patrol sector. She handed in the necessary paperwork, then moved along again as the mud-spattered and decidedly-chilled and frustrated scout stalked out to the washracks.

Three. Good. Logic prevailed again. Lowering his head, he got through a human hour of paperwork when the door was slammed open. Doorwings twitching in irritation, the Datsun glared up at whoever decided to interrupt him. "What."

Jazz stood lazily against the door. "Jus' comin' tah check up on ya. When's th' last time ya had some energon, man?"

"This morning," Prowl muttered, going back to his work. Of course, Jazz would come. He was a rule all unto himself and applied _no_ logic to his movements. What an annoyance.

"An' when did you las' recharge?"

"Last night." Prowl didn't look up at the other black-and-white, preferring to sign another piece of completed paperwork, sliding it into the "done" tray.

"Uh-huh. Right. Musta been a real late night for you. Since, yanno, I was on-duty for graveyard shift this week, an' ya haven't left this room since _yesterday afternoon_ unless it was ta walk to grab energon this mornin'."

Pausing all movements, Prowl slowly glared up at the Porche. "And?"

The spymaster's visage didn't give him away, which meant that Prowl was in for it. He knew that closed expression. Great. "You're third-in-command—" the tactician tried to remind Jazz.

"Which gives me enough authority t' tell ya t' leave the paperwork for a while, or at _least_ delegate it."

"Oh? To who, _you_? You hardly complete your _own_ paperwork!"

"Only when you're watching. Look, ya _can't_ survive on just energon alone, man. Ya need t' get _recharge_. An' I ain' takin' _no_ for an answer!"

Times like these, Prowl wished that Jazz didn't have that visor. It'd make it easier to glare at him. It'd give him more than a general area to glare at. The test of wills continued on before he finally snarled inarticulately and saved his work. "You're just going to bother me until I go and recharge."

"Prowl, I've been telling ya to recharge for _centuries_ an' ya haven't been able to refuse me yet. G'wan, get."

Just to be obstinate, Prowl stopped moving and continued to glare at the lower-ranking mech, not amused in the least that he was being told what to do, even though he knew that Jazz was right. It was most inconvenient. He was rewarded for his efforts with the downward turn of the expressive mouth. "Prowl."

"Yes?"

"I c'n crash your processor then haul you to Ratchet, claiming that you've been overworking, which he'll agree to."

"You did that three months ago. To do so again would be highly illogical, as there hasn't been much in the way of absurd and utterly nonsensical happenings taking place on base." Crossing arms over his chest, the second in command knew that he had his friend at that one. "Not to mention that to do so again so soon would be out of your normal behavioral patterns."

_Pain in th' aft mech_, Jazz grumbled silently. "So ya're goin' t' think that I can't break your head."

"That would be correct."

"Last chance, Prowler."

"I am still capable of four more hours of solid work. And don't call me Prowler."

"Fine. Access DeviantArt, type in 'Prowl Jazz slash.'"

That got him a twitch . . . another twitch . . . then the audible fizzle of Prowl's logic centers crashing. Smirking, Jazz shook his head. "Sorry, man, but you're going to have to forgive me later." Picking the Datsun up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, he brought the bot to the medbay, pausing as a laughing Wheeljack darted out, followed by several wrenches.

Yeah. Just a normal day at the base. "Yo, Hatchet! Prowler crashed!"

"What the hell did you do to him _this_ time? Primus slaggit, Jazz!" Ratchet glared down the hall until Wheeljack disappeared into his own lab.

"Told him to look for some slash on a human art website."

"Slash, huh? That wouldn't happen to be the same as what the twins were causing trouble about earlier, would it?"

"You mean those pairings? Like me an' anythin' that moves, the Twins an' anythin' that moves, Twins an' Blue, Twins an' you, you and 'Jack, Optimus an' Megs—"

"Jazz—"

"Optimus and Bee—"

"Dammit, Jazz!"

"You asked!"

Snorting, the mech sighed and glared at the saboteur. "Great. That's fantastic. You knew that he didn't know about it, of course."

"Yep!" came the cheerful reply as he carried the prone Prowl into the med bay and laid him upon a berth. "He's too logical t' go searchin' out what th' Twins were cookin' up, jus' goin' along th' lines of 'do th' crime, pay th' time,' an' now you have Twins doing chores."

"Dare I ask _what_ slash pairing? Primus above." Hooking monitors up, the medic glared over the still-twitching mech before attaching a plug into the highly-developed processor, translating the code into a viewable image on the screen. "Oh. Frag. Nevermind."

"Which one did he fritz on?" Jazz wondered, coming closer to the screen. He blinked, stared, reset his visor, then stared a bit more. "Well. I'd fritz, too. Hm. Well, I _am_ that flexible."

"Out!"

* * *

Three things. Things happen in threes. Prowl came to with that thought, and memories of recent internet searches almost made his CPU freeze up again, until he logically broke through the vicious cycle. He found Ratchet staring down at him, then had the good grace to look embarrassed.

"It's taken me four hours to get your CPU back on track, then to put you into a natural recharge cycle. That was yesterday evening. It's now noon. You have three minutes to tell me _why_ you found it to be a good choice to listen to Jazz."

At the end of three minutes, Prowl still had nothing to say.


	2. Chapter 2

Three  
By Sinead

_**Author's Note:**__ You people are amazing. BTW, this goes to Dragonseeker789 on DeviantArt. Something about your comment made my brain start turning again. BTW, there's still no slash in here._

Two

"I'm sorry, man."

"Don't want to hear it."

"No, really, I'm sorry."

"I know that you're not. Now get out of my office."

"You're not listenin' ta me . . ."

"With reason. You crashed my CPU. Twice. In three months."

"But it was for a reason! You have to stop pulling triple-shifts!"

Finally looking up to glare at the saboteur, Prowl hissed, "Get. Out."

Seeing that he wasn't going to get anywhere, Jazz hefted a sigh and walked out of the office, making his way down to the mess hall-slash-commons area. Entering, he looked around to find just the people he was looking for. Grabbing a cube of energon, he spun a chair backwards and sat in it, tilting it forward just that bit. "So. He's mad at me."

"Lover's spat," Sideswipe said through a snicker.

"It's probably because he's just on duty and doesn't want to get backlogged. Again." Sunstreaker shrugged, downing the last of a second cube, setting it aside with an easy movement.

Bluestreak was oddly silent, but the look around the gunner's optics gave away that he was deep in thought, and it wasn't what you'd call innocent thinking, either. Jazz grinned, leaning closer and shoving at Blue's elbow. "Speaking of lovers . . ."

"I'm not doing the twins, Jazz. To be honest, I'm actually thinking about _causing_ the trouble, and not just accidentally getting _caught up in_ the trouble this time." He was surprisingly succinct.

"Aww, c'mon, Blue, just once? I promise that you'll love every nano-second of being with us."

"Siders, shush," Jazz said. "Blue, what's your idea?"

At his smirk, he had the entire table transfixed. When Bluestreak didn't babble, it meant that the Praxian was going to be up to something dangerous, troublesome, troublemaking, and usually, a brilliant plan.

Bumblebee was walking in front of Prowl, reading a report file about what his next scouting assignment was to be. He was completely enthralled in reading the details, and seemed to be quite serious about making sure that he knew what he was going to be looking for. Prowl inwardly made a note about that. It was good to see the scouts taking more care of their sectors. Especially the Minibots. They could be ever so tiresome when they weren't focusing upon the job at hand.

But as Bee turned a corner, a rushing Jazz ran right into the minibot, cursing in surprise before he caught the yellow frame and kept him stable. However, the folder and its contents went scattered to the four winds in lieu of a frame. "Aw, man, lemme help."

"It's all right!" Bumblebee replied, cheerful as ever. As Prowl continued to walk closer, they managed to clean the entire mess of papers and pads up, walking off together to wherever they were going, laughing about the ordeal and planning to have a cube of energon at the mess hall sometime this day or next, completely oblivious of the SIC.

Frowning, Prowl saw that they had missed one paper. Picking the blank piece up, he flipped it over to see if it was of any importance. Doorwings flinging upwards in surprise, he folded it and glared after the duo. One of the two of them most _certainly_ had planted it! They had to!

But he had _no_ way of making sure. He hadn't seen them pick everything up, having gone back to reading his datapad at the normal occurrence of bots running into each other at every odd junction.

He subspaced the artistic (and physiologically inaccurate) rendering of the Lambo twins interfacing with Ratchet, continuing on his way to his office.

Now it was hazing. He was sure of it. Or someone had a rather strange obsession with human lingerie on mechly forms.

Prowl glared at the paper on the floor, then continued on past it, his glare aimed at the end of the hallway, where the door to his office was hidden from sight by a crowd of Autobots. It wasn't just the officers, either, which gave him cause to hesitate. Then, to his utter humiliation, he saw Prime straighten with paper held in one massive hand, scattering the troops with a word as he turned and saw Prowl.

And because _he_ saw Prowl, _everyone_ saw Prowl.

With a death-glare upon his face.

And his doorwings hitched up stiffly in pure anger.

He was analyzing every mech that looked at him. Half of the mechs he dismissed right out of hand because they were edging away from the scene as quietly as they could. Ratchet looked amused; he wasn't the culprit. Ironhide was sniggering too much to be the culprit. Jazz, for once, looked shell-shocked and dazed. Prowl didn't want to look too much into that one. Sideswipe was holding his sides and laughing so hard that his air intakes were sputtering, leaning against a smirking Sunstreaker. Wait. Jazz hadn't been involved with this. Not this time.

But where was . . .

By this point, interrupting his thoughts, Optimus had reached him. "And you didn't tell me about this . . . why?"

"What was there to tell?"

"Well, if you had only _told_ me that you and Jazz were considering Bonding—"

Everything fizzled out to black after a spectacular burst of static.

"Prowl, I'm really sorry."

"Out."

"But—"

"Out!"

Jazz opened the door to Prowl's office just as Bluestreak slid his way out from seeing the snarling tactician. Watching the grey and red mech turn once his doorwings were out of sight of the irritable black-and-white, he turned and grinned, giving two thumbs-up to Jazz before whirling down a side-hallway almost-gracefully. Knowing that Prowl was watching him, Jazz counted down on his fingers silently.

Three.

Two.

One.

"WHAT THE _SLAG_, GUYS!"

Snickering and closing the door behind him just as Bluestreak darted back out of the hallway amid a chorus of raucous laughter, Jazz looked up at Prowl, seeing the irritation fade to confusion and curiosity. There weren't many mechs that Prowl opened up enough to show his emotions instead of just _asking_ a question. So when Prowl felt comfortable enough around Jazz to communicate silently, Jazz would always respond to it. "Twins got Blue back for you."

Another look. This time a deadpan "do I want to know?" expression.

"No. Ya don' wanna know."

The silent look of "tell me."

"Prowl. Trust me."

Recycling the air to cool his core, Prowl finally muttered, "Is it enough to break me again?"

"Worse'n what Bluestreak was pulling on ya."

"So long as I don't _see_ it . . ."

"Th' twins were caught in a compromising-but-open-t'-others situation."

Silence for a long moment before Prowl sighed and stood up as if he was going to take care of this situation. "Who else was indecent?"

"It's not worth it, man."

"Oh? And why is that? If Optimus finds out that his troops are doing recreational activities in the base—"

"They were off-duty."

"Fine, then. _Right next to the main offices_—"

"Down that side-corridor an' around a corner."

Glare.

"Oh, an' did I mention th' icing on th' cake?"

". . . no."

"Optimus helped."

Prowl shut his damn battle computer off with an audible _click_ and sat back down, resting his face in his hands while Jazz laughed at his groans of having to be the _mature_ one of this base of Younglings.


	3. Chapter 3

Three  
By Sinead

_**Author's Note:**__ Thank you for your patience! I have a lot on my plate right now, but I wanted to finish this small trio up with something a little less panic-ridden than the prior installments. Thank you for reading, for watching, and for reviewing! I hope that this won't disappoint you!_

_Also, some of the formatting was lost due to being silly and dictating how many question marks or exclamation points. So in the italicized comments, if you see one punctuation mark that isn't a period, imagine that there are three there instead.  
_

Three

They were all in separate areas of the room. Each of them was completely entrenched within their respective circles of friends, and each of them were seemingly ignoring each other. The officer watched them carefully, though. Subtle body-language was running between them. There was a conversation happening on a level that only they were able to interpret, even _without_ watching each other. Few mechs had the sensor-setup to be able to handle this kind of interaction.

_Irritation-frustration-damn-cards-ill-favor._

_Amusement-try-harder-mind-good-improvise._

_**?-amusement-intel-need-?**_

_Intel-good-new-round._

_**Affirmative.**_

Narrowing cautious optics over his cube of energon, the mech watched Jazz saunter up towards his side, grabbing his own cube and leaning casually against the bulkhead beside him. "So. Who're ya watchin'?"

_Cheating-bad-stop._

_Cheating-make-win-good-prize-Ratchet-high-grade._

_Cheating-win-share-demand._

_**I-share-prize?**_

_Maybe._

"Those three." He indicated the mechs with only the tip of his smallest finger, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself or to Jazz, whose own gaze was shielded by his visor.

Laughing as if he was told a great joke, Jazz shook his head, taking a swig of energon before asking, "You just now noticing them?"

"No, I'm just now noticing how complex they've woven their communication style."

"Well, it's not like they're going to get in trouble after the recent prank wars went sour and all. An' that style's been used since they've all been Sparklin's."

"Mm, true." Sipping energon again, the grey-faced mech sighed and shook his head. "I'm just curious about what they're talking about."

_**Cards-favor-next-round-look-high-count.**_

_Thank-you-positive-?_

_**Hound-bluff-positive.**_

_Tomorrow-Quattra._

_No-!_

_**No-no-no**__**-! **__**Quattra-impossible-bad-processor-ache-bad-overcharge-morning-after-agony-!**_

_Both-coward-also-Mirage-Hound-pair-together-Hound-want-Quattra-learn._

Turning his head towards the main groups of loud off-duty mechs, Jazz took his time in identifying the nonverbal signals. Snickering, he replied, "Now, I'm just a novice—"

"Oh, that's _slag_."

_Amusement-tease-will-?_

_Negative-facilitate-pairing._

_**How-?**_

_Shift-time-similar-schedule-shift-identical-soon._

_Amusement-!-Diabolical-plan-like-Hound-encourage-will._

"Ssh, no interruptin' me! C'mon, man! I _am_ a novice at readin' that kinda body language." He kept watching the trio as they moved, sometimes half-facing each other, but still enthralled with their current conversation-mates, sometimes facing completely away. But the constant babble between them never ceased in pace. "It's gossip and petty plotting."

Optimus Prime stared at his third in command for a long moment. Then, sighing, taking a sip of energon, he turned his gaze back upon the sole remaining Praxians and their silent conversation. "So they're gossiping?"

"And cheating. Blue just told Smokey what cards Roddie has."

"He can't even _see_ Hot Rod's cards!"

"No, but Sideswipe can." Jazz grinned broadly.

". . . huh."

"And I _think_ that Prowl's onto us. Yep. Yes he is." Reading the faint but precise twitching of doorwings, the hitch of a shoulder, and then the settling of them into a certain position, he chortled. "Told me to tell you that this form of communication is useless in battle, and is asking your opinion on his game of Quattra against Mirage."

"He can hear us?"

"Remember when Blue's doorwings were about blown off years ago?"

"Primus, yes. He was refusing to go into shutdown, even though the misfiring neural system must have been agony." Even the great leader never wished that sort of pain upon his worst enemies.

"Yeah. You know he gets nightmares. All the sensors are in _them_, an' they can run hot, which is why they're in the doorwings, separate from th' main body of sensors. Which is also why they get fussy about doors gettin' touched without permission or whatever. It's rude, overly familiar, an' can, if it's a rough touch, jostle something out of whack if the system is already precariously on edge after a battle."

Giving the languid officer a sideways glance, Optimus asked, "Now how would you know all this?"

Sighing, knowing that _he_ wasn't going to live down the supposed pairing between himself and Prowl, Jazz replied, "Because Prowl trusts me ta watch his back an' ta know what to do if he's incapacitated and delirious with pain. Aside from you, I'm one of the few officers who can take 'im down if need be. He jus' tol' me a few ways that are faster than the conventional knock-outs. Oh. He's gettin' impatient, boss."

"That flick of the doorwings?"

"Naw, it was th' hitch before 'is doorwings flicked. That flick was him tellin' Blue t' pay attention and keep feeding Smokey intel."

Taking a moment to study the board, Optimus murmured, "It's a good game. Complex. Stunning patterns. Both he and Mirage are masters, and this proves it."

"Watch. See that dip? He said thanks."

Optimus chuckled, sipping at his energon and turning his attention to Bluestreak. "So the flicks and movements aren't just for helping those three keep their balance or when they're adjusting a sensor."

"Nope. Even Prowl's really expressive, if ya know what t' look f'r. If we had more Praxians on our crew, you'd see that the gossip mill would run twice as fast."

"You sound as if you've been there."

"Once. Long time ago." Jazz sighed, shaking his head. "Anywhos. I have a shift to catch."

Smiling, Prime nodded and stood. "And I apologize, but I have my berth. No day starts late for a leader."

"Glad that ya came outta your office f'r once, Prime. Good ta see ya in the rec room."

"What the _slag_?" Hot Rod slammed his cards down and glared at Smokescreen. "How the Pit did you win that round? I slaggin' _had_ you last round!"

Prime grinned at Jazz, who was hiding his own broad grin behind his energon cube. Standing, he let it be known that he was in the room, and, of course, he had optics everywhere and saw _everything_. Especially when someone was acting like a Youngling, or was going to get into trouble. Noting the set of Smokescreen's doorwings, Optimus intoned, "Do we need a refresher upon Autobot policies of gambling while one should be on shift?"

"Wh-what? Oh, Primus! Slaggit!" Hot Rod yelped before groaning and darting out of the room. Sighing, Prime looked at the other four gamblers. Sunstreaker was blinking over his cards at Prime in shock, Hound was eyeballing the high grade, Smokescreen had turned in his chair and watched the leader with curious, narrowed optics, and Ratchet was grinning.

The rest of the rec room was watching him as well. He pointed to Ratchet. "Officer game tomorrow night, when we're all off. Ratchet, I have a four-million-year-old aged energon stash that I might be willing to part with a cube as entry and betting device." That would leave the rest of the 'bots shocked and not that keen to enter an officer game. Sometimes, the stakes were just too high.

He left his troops staring after him, but right before the door shut, he heard someone ask, "Did anyone see Prime even _come in_?"

Prowl's voice replied, "Ask any officer, scientist or long-term scout, and we could give you the exact time that Prime entered. Oh. Mirage? Quattra."

"Wait. _Wait._ You . . . oh Primus, you slagger. Damn, you even did that _artfully_!"

Smiling, Prime closed the door and left the troops behind him, thanking Primus for the difficult, unique, tight-knit crew. He didn't know where he would be without them. And as he looked over his shoulder, he saw Prowl exiting the rec room, turn towards him, and smile. Smiling and raising a hand over his shoulder, he saw the tactician dip his head and walk in the other direction, frame held tightly and precisely, doorwings balancing high and proud upon his back. As Jazz walked out beside the other black and white, it was clear to see that Prowl relaxed just a hair.

Maybe someday, Prowl would be able to relax completely in public. Until that day, though, they would _fight_.

Prime turned towards his berth, frame weary, but Spark energized, the after-image of doorwings dipping in a phrase burned into his memory.

_Thank you._


End file.
